Smother
by Scented-Marker-Sniffer
Summary: Something was wrong. Usually he smiled at someone else's pain, but this wasn't making him happy at all.


**Takes place pre-Phase 1. I'm sorry if Murdoc seems a bit OOC... I tried, I swear. **_  
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**I don't own anything, of course. Thank you very much for visiting and please enjoy.**

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_Why wasn't this satisfying him?_ Usually, the pain of another human being caused him a great deal of pleasure, especially when he caused that pain. But something was clearly wrong; he wasn't getting any gratification out of this at all. Quickly deducing it to the possibility that he wasn't squeezing hard enough, the Satanist tightened his grip and continued strangling his victim.

His prey of choice that day was the scrawny blue-haired kid he had been assigned to take care of; Stuart Pothead or whatever his name was. Murdoc hadn't really paid attention to the kid's name at the hearing, his mind having been more occupied with the more-than-apparent idiocy of the legal system, to put him, Murdoc Faust Niccals, in charge of the very kid he took out with his stolen ride. Murdoc had heard of a lot of really stupid things in his thirty years of existence, but that had to be in the top five. Seriously? You don't trust the victim's safety with the attacker; that was just basic_ common sense._ Of course, just because it was stupid didn't mean Murdoc was going to pass up the opportunity to get back at the kid who earned him 30,000 hours of community service, and now he was filling his weekly ten-hour slot of abuse with relish. Or, he was trying.

He straddled the kid's stomach after having knocked him to the floor with a particularly hard punch to the face, and now he clenched his fists around Stuart's scrawny neck without mercy. Of course, being in a coma, the kid couldn't do a thing about it. All he could do was gasp desperately and weakly claw at Murdoc's arms in a show of muddled human instincts, mismatched eyes wide in panic.

Having tightened his grip, Murdoc frowned a little, disconcerted. Despite the pained, breathless whimpers that escaped the boy underneath him, the same sounds that usually made the Satanist laugh in delight, he _still_ wasn't satisfied. What was going on? He wasn't sick; he didn't get sick. He had woken up that morning feeling just the same as he usually did—hung-over and with a burning desire to take out his resulting foul mood on the first soul unfortunate enough to cross his path, which happened to be Stuart. So what was the matter? Maybe Stuart's face wasn't red enough? No, it was plenty red; it was actually turning a little blue. Maybe his hands were getting arthritic or something? No, that wasn't possible; he was Murdoc Niccals, young and vital, and only old people got arthritis. Maybe Stuart wasn't in enough pain to appease him? Murdoc tried to remedy this with a hard knee to the kid's stomach, causing him to let out a horrid gurgle, not unlike a death cry or something equally as morbid.

Nothing was working. He was feeling perfectly like himself, perfectly Murdoc Niccals, perfectly sadistic, and the kid's face was turning the perfect shade of purple. Something was clearly horribly wrong, but he just didn't know what.

Underneath him, Stuart opened his mouth in a soundless scream, tears and a bit of blood beginning to run out of his strained eyes, and something inside Murdoc shifted. There was this odd, sickish feeling in the pit of his stomach and a growing weight in his chest. In all the drugs and alcohol he had ingested over the years, he had almost forgot this, but it was definitely familiar. He hadn't felt this kind of thing since he was very young... What was it?

It took him a bit, in his slightly alcohol-muddled state, but the word soon came to him.

_Guilt._ This was guilt, mixed together in a big cocktail of pain and disappointment and loneliness. It seeped into his stomach and up his abdomen where it finally settled heavily into his barely-twitching, obsidian heart.

What was he _doing?_

Murdoc had never been a good person—far from it, really—but he had never been _evil._ But now... Had he really stooped so low that he had to spend his days ruthlessly beating a 19-year-old boy, the very kid he was supposed to be helping? A kid who couldn't even fight back, because _he _had put him in a coma? Had he really become so incapable of human emotion, so inept at dealing with them, that _this_ was what he had to do to feel alive? Really? Wasn't he better than that? Did he swear to be above that? Wasn't he supposed to be better than his father, a stronger person than that?

The revelation weakened Murdoc's iron grip on Stuart's neck.

No. No, he wasn't. In fact, he was _worse,_ a far worse person that that old sod he called his father, for allowing himself to become the very thing he hated.

His bony hands fell limply at his sides, and the kid gasped for air, his purple face returning to its original paper-like hue. When the boy finally seemed able to breathe properly again, his empty eyes turned upwards towards the Satanist. In his mismatched gaze, there wasn't panic, wasn't pain, wasn't even that dopey glazed-over look one would expect to see on a coma patient, the same look that Murdoc had grown so accustomed to seeing on the kid's face. There was... love. Worship. Adoration. Thankfulness for a kind deed Murdoc had never committed.

This one look, more _human_ than any stare the Satanist had received in a long time, was enough to turn Murdoc's guilt and regret right back into high-octane rage. With an infuriated scream, he landed a crushing backhanded blow across the boy's face.

Ignoring the kid's yelp of agony, Murdoc stood roughly and vaulted over the kid's diminutive frame, feeling his worshipping gaze still hot on his back. Never looking back, he walked stiffly until he reached his bedroom door, which he threw open and locked behind him, and proceeded to put yet another hole in his wall with his fist.

Stupid kid. Bloody _stupid_ kid. Murdoc hated him, hated him more than anything he had ever laid eyes on before. Hated the way he stared, hated how he made Murdoc _consider_ his actions. Well, he could just lie on the living room floor all day; it was his fault for ever getting in the way of the Satanist in the first place.

_Stuart's fault. Not mine. _

The broken cries coming from the equally broken boy in his living room echoed throughout the dirty flat.

Murdoc put his earphones on and sang along until all was silent again.

_Not mine._


End file.
